Crawling Towards the Sun
by VictoriaPyrrhi
Summary: A collection of various ficlets for Soul Eater, from the very short to the not quite as short. Some will be M, others K , exploring relationships and friendships and whatever strikes my personal fancy. Primarily but not exclusively Soul/Maka. UPDATED with Maka dancing and Soul maybe staring a bit.
1. It's Only Natural

**It's only natural**

* * *

><p>There were no flowery declarations of love. No "confessing", no bashful glances or shoegazing and toe scuffing. There might have been some fierce blushing (which is really to be expected when you get your first kiss from your best friend), but there were <em>absolutely <em>no soft giggles or moony eyes.

Their first kiss was, in a word, disastrous. They had been shouting, and in each other's face, and she remembered being just _incredibly_ angry. When their lips crashed together, he bruised his lip, and she cut hers slightly on his teeth. They pulled away, eyes wondering, hearts pounding, and when they eased back together, it was soft and hard and wet and _good_.

Maka didn't understand at first. She had read all about relationships in the books that she'd taken from her mother's "special" shelf. But nowhere did they mention that you could have a relationship with someone and have nothing really change between you. It bothered her at first. At least until she realized that she really didn't _want _anything to change between them.

They already _had_ a relationship. They walked to school together, sat together, ate together. Hell, they _lived_ together for that matter. Soul already knew when her birthday was, and if he got her something a little nicer now, well, that was hardly much of a change. They already fought, with each other and _at _each other, so that wasn't anything new, either.

The biggest difference, she thought, was the physical. They'd always been rather touchy with one another-Soul especially. Little touches on her shoulder, or on her lower back evolved into covert butt-squeezes and arms wrapped around her waist. Maka enjoyed holding his hand as they walked to and from school, or as they sat wrapped together on the couch. Soul would roll his eyes and say something about how _completely_uncool it was, but he'd always squeeze her hand as he grabbed it.

It was..._natural_.

When she realized that she loved him, it wasn't dramatic. It wasn't life-altering or soul-shattering. They were sprawled together on the couch, her with a book, he with a game controller. She'd looked up from her book to find that he'd paused the game to wrap his arms around her in a display of unexpected affection. She leaned back into him, surrounded by his smell and warmth, and knew that this was love.

She asked him once when he'd known that he loved her. Soul blinked at her lazily and shrugged as he shoveled more pie into his mouth.

"Since always," he stated matter-of-factly.

There were times, especially after they began to share a bed, that Maka would begin to worry that she was doomed to repeat the mistakes of her mother and father. When she said as much, Soul would raise an eyebrow and ask her if she was on the rag.

When he had recovered from the spinal end of a book to the head, he'd wrap an arm around her, even as she tried to shrug him off.

"We're not your parents," he'd whisper in her ear, and slowly she'd relax into his arms, feeling the truth of his words.

It was natural. Like any relationship, it wasn't always _easy_. But Soul'd been dealing with her neuroses for years already, and though sleeping together brought new neuroses to the forefront, it wasn't much of a struggle to handle those either. He might have even caught himself thinking that the way she freaked out over things was a little cute. He also thought that he might have brain damage, but that was neither here nor there.

There were times when she was certain that his devil-may-care attitude was going to drive her completely insane. Or the few times his family had come up in conversation, and she'd had to simultaneously calm him and get the subject changed. His pride was easily wounded when she'd laugh at him, which was frequently, but she was okay with making his favorite meal to make up for it.

They were partners first, then friends, and then lovers. For Soul and Maka, it was an almost seamless progression. Nothing about them had been easy, or smooth. They fought just as much after they'd been together for five years as they had when they'd been together for six months (though Soul _really_ enjoyed being able to engage in some phenomenal make up sex). She still did stupid, rash things, and he still berated her endlessly for being _such_ a _nerd_, but at the end of it all, they knew they'd still go home together, wake up together, live and breathe together.

It was rarely _easy_. But it was natural, and they wouldn't have it any other way.


	2. Morning

**Morning Person (M)**

* * *

><p>He was not, and never had been a morning person. There was something incredibly irritating and <em>piercing<em> about the morning sun that compelled him to grunt, roll over, and throw the covers over his head. When they'd moved into this apartment, he'd made sure that he grabbed the room with the least amount of morning light. Maka had looked at him like he was insane, but then, she was definitely a morning person-all bright sunshine and smiles before 10:00am. _Freak_.

Most mornings the only thing that got him out of bed at a reasonable time was the knowledge that Maka was probably making breakfast, and that she'd completely _ruin _him if he missed school, or even worse, if he made her late. The scent of coffee and bacon was a pretty powerful lure, as well.

So when he woke up with a face full of bright, obnoxious morning light, Soul's first thought was that he'd perhaps fallen into some kind of crazed alternate universe. Or maybe it was April Fool's, and Black Star had conspired to move his bed in the middle of the night again. He was in the process of groaning and considering rolling over and wondering why the _hell _his room was so damn bright when he registered the arm draped casually over his stomach, and the feeling of squishy flesh pressed firmly against his back. Fragments of the night rose in his mind, warm and sticky nakedness and soft cries-definite explosions.

The sun still burned at his eyes, but Maka's arm, wiry and strong, tightened even as her hand began to make lazy circles around his navel. Her fingers tripped lightly over his hipbone, dancing slowly up and down his chest. Warm lips grazed his shoulders. Her fingers were being far too nimble for this early in the morning, and they had _definitely _settled on working their way underneath his shorts.

"You awake?" she asked, her voice husky. Between that, and her wandering hand, he was awake, all right.

He grunted something that was probably assent. Maka smothered a small giggle in his shoulder even as she grabbed him and began stroking. Soul was afraid his eyes might be permanently stuck in the back of his skull as she tugged at him. With an inarticulate growl, he rolled over and attached his teeth to her collarbone. She gasped, giggling, before seeming to dissolve into sighs and moans, her grip loosening.

She tore away, her eyes alight with desire, and straddled him, nipping at the scar on his chest. She sank down on him, and his eyes crossed slightly as she squeezed and rolled her hips.

The sun still shone, and still directly _in his eyes_, but as Maka ground against him, shuddering and making the most deliciously _obscene _noises, Soul found that he really could not care any less. She cried out, and he bucked upward, shouting something that might have been "Oh god" or "I love you", he wasn't sure which.

They lay there together, basking in the afterglow and the steady sunshine streaming in through the window in Maka's room, slowing coming down from the endorphin high and the tight, used feeling of good sex, when he quietly admitted that he might be becoming a morning person.

She just laughed softly.


	3. Loathing, unadulterated loathing

**Loathing, unadulterated loathing**

* * *

><p>He hates the fact that nothing he can do can pull her out of her room; he hates the way her face lights up when she receives a postcard from her mother. Her <em>mother<em>, he wants to scream at her-the woman who can't be bothered to call Maka on her birthday or on Christmas, can drag a smile out of his meister, when she won't speak more than two words him.

He hates Maka's mother-hates her neglect, hates the fact that she left her daughter with this mess, hates that she's supposed to be some sort of super-meister, but she's nowhere to be found, that after months, all they have is this flimsy little postcard when the world's about to burn.

He tries not to glare at the way Maka bounds out of her room, hands full of the damn things-at the way she spreads them across their coffee table and practically _glows _with pride and pleasure.

She wouldn't even come out for food. Just straight into her room when she gets home. He sets a plate with some snacks on it and watches carefully as she reaches for the crackers while chatting excitedly with Blair. Soul feels sick to his stomach.

He wants her to throw those fucking things away, not caress them like they're holy objects. But he knows that she never will, that she'll forever hold her mother as a hero, as someone to look up to. He wants her to turn to him like she does to those postcards-he wants to tell her that her mother isn't the kind of person that you look up to, that Maka is already twice the woman her mother is, more heroic, more skilled. Soul wants to shake her and tell her that emulating a woman like that means she's selling herself short.

Instead he nods and pretends like his chest doesn't ache, and he makes sure she eats. And when Black*Star and Tsubaki arrive, he makes sure that she joins them for basketball, even though she bitches and moans and makes him feel like the bad guy.


	4. 369

**3-6-9**

* * *

><p>She wears these little shorts around the house sometimes-she does it unselfconsciously and as far as he can tell, completely ignorant of the effect she has on him. As if she doesn't already drive him insane on a day to day basis, he has to walk into the living room to find her sprawled on the couch, long legs bare and stretched out.<p>

"It's hot," she grumbles. It's Nevada in August, so "hot" doesn't really cover it, and Soul is honestly shocked that she's even still wearing clothes, despite of her normal modesty. He's thought about the finer points of nudity himself, but like her, has settled for a tank top and shorts.

The primary difference being his shorts aren't an inch shy of underwear, and his tank top (muscle shirt, he insists when she brings it up) doesn't slip enticingly off his shoulders. But she is his meister, and his friend, and despite the fact that he wants to do a 180 and lock himself back in his room for some quality time with his hand, and despite the fact that she drives him up the goddamned wall, when she arches her back over the end of the couch to stare upside down at him imploringly, he doesn't bolt.

"S_oooooo_ul," she says, and he can't move because her eyes are enormous and fixed on him, and she's got a mischievous little smile that quirks up the corners of her mouth and makes his heart thump erratically. Maybe there is something wrong with him and the heat has gotten to him.

"What?" He sounds bored and annoyed, and that's good, that's correct and proper and doesn't indicate that he's trying not to stare at the way her tank top does precisely dick all to cover her tits at this angle.

"Can you get me a popsicle? Pleeeease?" His jaw tightens, and he is too busy trying not to gape like a suffocating fish to notice she's staring at the way his Adam's apple bobs.

"_H-hell no_!" It bursts out of his mouth before he can stop himself and she tilts her head to stare at him.

"Come on, Soul, why not?" He's got a whole litany of reasons, most of which revolve around the fact that he refuses to be an enabler of his own blue balls and none of which will ever pass his lips, he swears.

He settles for, "'m not your goddamn butler; get it yourself." She pouts, which is not a tactic that she normally employs, and for a brief moment, Soul wonders if there's something up.

"Pl_eeeeeeea_se?" Is she batting her eyelashes? He thinks she might be; worse, he thinks it's working. He grumbles and turns on his heel, missing Maka's triumphant grin. "Cherry!" She calls out as soon as he pops open the freezer door, before he can even ask. His grumbles increase in volume, and her smile widens just a touch.

He throws the popsicle at her when he's halfway to the couch, and is a little disappointed when she snatches it out of the air. He knows he's being unreasonable, but it's like he can see this whole thing playing out in his mind, and it doesn't bode well for his mental well-being.

"Scoot." It's Maka's turn to grumble, but she lifts her long legs out of the way so Soul can claim the opposite corner of the couch. "No, you don't get to be irritated," Soul replies, plopping down. "I got you a popsicle, the least you can do is give me part of the couch." He grabs the remote and starts flipping through channels.

"I moved, didn't I?" She plunks her feet back down, now that he's settled, and he tries to ignore her toes wiggling under his thigh in favor of finding something appropriately manly on TV.

"Under duress," he replies, eyes fixed on the screen, and not the way her shorts are a little loose around the legs and he might be able to see panties if she wiggles-

Soul's popsicle tastes like grape, in the sense that anything labeled "grape" in actuality tastes more like Dimetapp elixir and _purple _rather than anything even remotely fruit flavored. He concentrates on that, and not on the way Maka twists to the side and her tank top rides up or the way her mouth is stained an increasingly appealing shade of red.

He settles on an X-Files marathon. At least he can maybe stare at Scully and try to forget the way those stupid fucking shorts are sitting low on Maka's hips, and the fact that her bellybutton is far more alluring than it has any right to be. The casual wet slurps coming from Maka's mouth make it difficult to keep his eyes on the screen, and his eyes keep darting over to her mouth unconsciously, just long enough to register whether or not she's sucking or licking the goddamned popsicle.

It's an act of supreme will to keep his face neutral as his meister gives her popsicle a thorough workover, seemingly completely unaffected by the fact that she's practically deep throating the whole thing and _how can she not know_?

The channel cuts to commercial, and she makes a happy little noise in the back of her throat, somewhat muffled by the fact that her lips are still firmly wrapped around the popsicle and she shifts on the couch, rolling onto her back again. She stretches and he finds himself with a lapful of Maka feet. When he glances to the side to protest, he catches her staring at him, arms still stretched over her head, stomach smooth and exposed and inviting and he swallows, suddenly very interested in the infomercial blaring at him. She squirms a little more, getting comfortable, and there isn't a meditative process in the world that can save him from her being _her_.

His shorts feel like they're about two sizes too small, and there is precisely no way that his meister cannot be privy to the fact that it's apparently boner time down south. Maybe if he doesn't move-but no. He can see the faint dusting of red across her face that has nothing to do with red dye number 40. Soul can't figure out why he hasn't gotten a book to the cranium yet, or why she hasn't jumped up and run screaming in the other direction. He takes another fierce bite out of his purple frozen water and tries very hard not to think of the implications or the fact that her ankle keeps brushing against him in a way that might end up extremely embarrassing for them both very soon.

Soul grabs her twitching ankle with one hand and takes another vicious bite of his popsicle. Two more chomps and it's gone, and fuck it, he doesn't care if he gets brainfreeze. From her stretched out position, Maka continues to stare at him,popsicle forgotten. He can only assume it's because his mouth is stained a ridiculous shade of purple (and totally not because she can feel his cock pressed against her completely unsexy ankle, no not _at all must be the purple_). He looks back at her just in time to watch her popsicle melt, dripping red sugar water onto her clavicle.

He can't look away as the trickle snakes its way down her chest to disappear between her breast. _Fuckit_. Soul lets his hand slide up Maka's leg and he tries not to think of how smooth her skin is, tries not to think about what he's about to do because if he does he really will run screaming in the other direction. His boner is still trapped uncomfortably between them, but he tries not to think about that either, focusing instead on Maka's eyes, which widen exponentially as he crawls closer to her. He manages to slip his hand all the way up to her thigh, fingertips grazing just underneath those _goddamn _shorts.

"You've got a little something-" he starts, gestures. She's got that deer in headlights look as she glances down, then back up at him. He manages a cool, arrogant smirk. "Let me get that for you."

It is, quite possibly, he congratulates himself, the smoothest move of his life as he dips his head down and _licks _away the faintly sticky sweet trail left between her tits, eyes never leaving hers. He gets as far as her collarbone before she comes to her senses, and her face goes completely scarlet.

"M-m-maka-_CHOP_!"

His last thought before it goes dark is that grape really doesn't go well with cherry.


	5. Beautiful Stranger

**Beautiful Stranger**

****(Heads up for Genderswap!)

* * *

><p>The change is slow, gradual. So much so that Maka really doesn't notice it until one day he realizes Soul's stopped wearing skirts almost entirely. His weapon is a far cry from the sullen, stuck up girl he met in the bowels of Shibusen.<p>

From her perch on the other end of the couch, Soul looks over at him, one eyebrow raised.

"'s there something on my face?" Maka shakes his head violently and goes back to staring at his textbook. He's been staring at the same page now for the past fifteen minutes. Soul unpauses her video game and continues to ignore him.

It isn't as though this is some kind of new development-not really, anyway. He wonders what happened to the snobby girl with the long hair and the demure skirts and modest long sleeved blouses. It's not hard to recall dozens of conversations that started with Soul whining about her hair getting tangled and gross as they trained together and ended with her stomping off in frustration when he would suggest that she just cut it off-excepting the one time he had suggested pigtails-that lasted for about a week before she was complaining that they got even more tangled than her ponytail.

Maka thinks that the day she strode into the apartment like a conquering hero, hair cut off just above her shoulders, was probably the first turning point. At the time, Maka didn't think much of it at all-he was just happy that Soul seemed to find a compromise that worked for her. He knew that she was strong and independent; hearing her play the piano was proof enough of the kind of soul that she possessed. But it was a difficult adjustment coming from a wealthy family, being the baby and being coddled.

It's been gradual, but it's there. Maybe there's something about the way that Soul's started curling up on the couch in a pair of short shorts that's grabbed his attention and really made Maka _look _at his partner and how far she's come in the past several years. He can't remember the last time she said that she couldn't do something because of what people might think, or the last time she fussed with her hair for longer than it took to put a headband on.

On impulse, he stretches a foot out and prods his weapon in the hip. Soul squirms away, wrinkling her nose.

"Maka, _whaaaaat_?" She doesn't bother to look over, and Maka smiles a little. She's still got the same adorable whine, no matter how much she might have changed physically. Short skirts or shorts or long, demure dresses, Soul is still Soul-still the same kind hearted, cool, strong, willful girl he was drawn to all those years ago. Maka grins and tosses his textbook onto the coffee table. Soul looks up long enough to see her meister lunge across the couch and to press pause again before she's pinned under Maka's lanky frame.

"Maka what the hell?" Then long fingers are digging into her sides, and she's shrieking annoyed laughter. "Nooooooo _aaaahahaha_ fuck stop _pffffffaaaaagh_!" Maka gets a half-hearted punch to the kidneys before Soul pushes him off and clambers on top of him before he can wiggle away. "See how _you_like it, you overgrown beanpole!" Her fingers artfully attack Maka's ticklish spots, and the meister is a helpless, giggling mass.

Soul looks down at Maka, her teeth bared in a victorious smirk. "You shriek like a girl," she states, her face flushed. Maka grins back, his red face having as much to do with their exertions as with the fact that his weapon is straddling his hips and he seems incapable of not thinking about it.

"So do you," he replies.

"Yes, but _I _have an excuse, I'm a girl."

"I'd noticed," Maka mutters. Soul digs nimble fingers into Maka's ribs again, and he laughs. "_Ack_!_ Ahhaaaha_ohgodstopmylungs."

"No so fun now, is it?" Her arms are crossed as she smirks down at him, and for once, Maka doesn't rein in his urge. He tangles one hand into her silky white hair and leans up, pressing his lips to hers. It only lasts a second before he disentangles himself and flops back onto the couch.

"No, still pretty fun." He hopes that is as cool as it sounds in his head, but his face is burning, and her face is burning as she looks at him, stunned, and he can't really be sure. Mostly, he's not really sure if he cares. Above him, Soul exhales in a little huff and uncrosses her arms. Her face is still burning, but she manages a small smile.

"Could be more fun," she suggests. Maka grins at her and nods.

"Yeah, I think it could be."


	6. Forgiveness

**Forgiveness**

(Soul and Chrona, with undertones of Soul/Maka)

* * *

><p>"I-I'm-"<p>

Soul stops in the hallway at the sound of that soft, stuttering voice.

He has yet to fully work out how he feels about the meister. On the one hand, there's no denying the kid's had one rough life. On the other, there is the small matter of the enormous scar that bisects his chest. And the black blood. And the fact that that scar meant Maka couldn't look him in the eye for weeks. _And _that his meister completely dotes on Chrona.

It's enough to make Soul some kind of jealous. Except, he has yet to figure out just _what_ kind of jealous, and really, he knows what it's like to not be in control of your own life-to be stuck in a paradigm created by your parents. The difference is that Soul left-that he _could _and did go. Chrona couldn't. Well, Soul might have been able to, but underneath it all, had his parents-had his mother turned to him and welcomed him home with open arms and unconditional love and acceptance-

Soul's not sure what he would have done. He likes to think that he wouldn't have trusted a woman like Medusa, no matter what she said, or what blood bond they had. He thinks of Maka's warm green eyes, and feels more certain that, if it meant betraying _her_, he knows exactly what his choice would be. But, as much as he doesn't like his parents, he knows that his situation was nothing compared to the manipulation and mind-fuckery that Chrona endured.

And so, he stops and he turns, and he waits for Chrona to catch up. The pink-haired meister looks nervous, but then again, that's kind of a permanent look.

"What's up?" Soul tries his best to remain relaxed, hands shoved into his pockets.

"I-I'm-"

Soul doesn't say any of the snarky things that pop into his mind like he might have with Maka or Kid, but simply waits as patiently as he can.

"_I'msorry_." It tumbles out of Chrona's mouth in a jumble, and if Soul hadn't been waiting for Chrona to speak, he might have missed it.

"Hah?"

"I'm…I'm sorry, Soul." He blinks and stares at the meister, tries to keep his face neutral.

"For what?" He isn't playing dumb. He wants to know what exactly, after all this time, Chrona is sorry for.

"F-f-for e-e-e-everything." Chrona looks more haggard than usual, as if forcing those words out took every ounce of energy the meister had. Maybe it had. The thought makes Soul want to punch things.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," he says instead. Chrona scuffs a shoe against the tile of the hallway.

"But it's all my fault, all the hurt and pain I've caused you-your scar, the blood; for Ms. Marie and Dr. Stein and-"

Soul sighs. "Really? Everything's your fault?"

Chrona nods.

"That's stupid. You fucked up. Yeah, so, everyone does it." He scrubs a hand through his hair; it catches on his headband. "There were some pretty extenuating circumstances, don't you think?" Chrona's mouth opens and closes once or twice.

"Well, yes, but I still really messed up. I betrayed my friends, I betrayed M-"

Soul interjects before the meister can finish that thought. "Yeah. You really did. Are you going to do it again?" He watches Chrona's face intently, though his expression remains studiously bored.

The kid looks horrified at the prospect, and Soul thinks for a minute that Chrona might actually burst into tears. A dark, vindictive part of Soul kind of hopes it happens. He _wants_ Chrona to feel bad, to feel ashamed for putting them into more danger during an already risky time, for betraying them, especially for betraying _her_. But he has to acknowledge that the meister came through for them, has tried to atone for committed sins. It's more than some people have done.

"I would _never_." The doubt and uncertainty is gone from Chrona's voice, and Soul recognizes the steel underneath. He nods once.

"Then I accept your apology." He looks Chrona in the eye, and the meister meets his gaze fully. Soul nods once. "Come on, Maka's making burritos tonight."

Chrona nods and smiles. "I've never had burritos before."

"You're in for a treat. Or heartburn, whichever." They walk out of the school together, and Soul rubs a hand across his chest.


	7. I Had A Heart Then

I Had A Heart Then

* * *

><p>Maka Albarn understood many things about love. Primarily, she understood that the love she knew when she was a child was a lie. She knew love was unconditional and unwavering with the kind of certainty reserved for the very young—still naïve and untouched by the harsh reality of life and truth.<p>

It took her parents separating for her to shed that childish notion of love. She won't admit it, but watching her mother and her father fracture shattered something inside of her. Her mother had custody during the separation, and Maka clung to her strength and her will, iron clad determination as she threw herself into her work as a meister without the aid of the Deathscythe she had worked so hard to create. But there was something broken within her too, and Maka learned that love wasn't unconditional or forever.

The moment Maka entered into Shibusen, her mother was gone—she was needed elsewhere, to become the best meister she could, but Maka knew that it wasn't that, that it was her father—it was sharp, broken love for her pathetic father that pushed her mother away. Maka understood that love wasn't enough, that you didn't love equally—that a mother's love might not mean what she had thought because she had _needed_ her, and she left anyway.

Her father tried, but all Maka could feel was the permeating sting of resentment and betrayal every time he showed up on her doorstep to take her to dinner with flowers and a grin and his insistence that he still loved "mama and Maka the most." She didn't believe him, she said, but the first couple of times, she went with him anyway. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was some kind of subconscious desire for a normalcy that didn't exist any longer.

In her cracked and broken heart, maybe she still hoped, still wanted to believe him, in him, in the love that he offered.

She stopped going when she realized that his eyes still followed their waitresses as they walked or bent down, and every dinner felt like stabbing her mother's memory, and that really there was nothing that had changed except that Maka understood that there was no alternate definition of love that she simply needed to discern, but that there really was just…no such thing.

This she accepted, understood, acknowledged. It was truth she had determined, and if something deep within her chest ached every time her father came by and she listened to Soul tell him flatly to "Go the fuck away, old man," it was because she was annoyed. It certainly wasn't because somewhere deep inside she still loved her father because he was her _father_ and she couldn't help herself.

And if something in the vicinity of her chest clenched when Soul came back and flopped onto the couch next to her, it was merely gratitude for his friendship and assistance because Maka understood now that there was no such thing as love, permanent and unconditional. That was just the world, as she had learned the hard way, and nothing could change that—not the way her partner scared off her father or burned their toast in the mornings, or the way he always tried to get her out of the house, or anything.

* * *

><p>This is a little odd, and a little eh, and makes me want to pat Maka on the head.<p> 


	8. She doesn't look a thing like Jesus

**She doesn't look a thing like Jesus**

* * *

><p>She doesn't really look <em>that <em>much like her mother, and Maka wonders why Spirit keeps insisting that she does. She chalks it up to him being a total creeper who can't let go of the past and is in the habit of projecting, and doesn't think on it much more.

Spirit knows that she doesn't look like her mother. They're pretty different, in fact. _Her _hair was a darker brown, her eyes more hazel than anything else. She was shorter too. Spirit remembers tangling fingers into thick hair and releasing it from the braid she used to keep it in.

His daughter is very little like her mother when it comes down to it. Physically, at least. But Spirit can see the resemblance in other ways. Maka's strength, her spirit and determination. In that, she is her mother's daughter through and through.

It terrifies him.

He sees that spark in her eyes, and his blood runs cold because he knows that it's just a matter of time before she leaves him, too. He watches her walk away, and wonders why he can't ever keep the ones he loves.


	9. The Past That Haunts Us

The Past That Haunts Us

_Because she is Nakatsukasa._

Black*Star/Tsubaki; angst, AU, character death.

* * *

><p>He stares the great stag down, defiant and proud, and something in her breaks and smiles at the gesture that's just <em>so<em> Black*Star.

_It's too late_, he says, _she _says with the weight of her family and centuries behind it. She sees him, standing there, but she also sees him in the great mire, eyes unblinking, quiet and still. She doesn't know how to react to that stillness. Black*Star is _never_ still; it's against everything that he is.

The mire creeps over him, slowly at first. He doesn't fight, even though it's not mire creeping any longer, but the arms of the fallen grabbing him and pulling him down and Tsubaki wants to scream, but she can't. She's his weapon, his best friend, but she's also the Enchanted Sword. She's Nakatsukasa, and she _can't_ because he's failed.

His fingers are the last to disappear reaching up towards her, and when she closes her eyes, she knows what she'll see. On the great bloody plain, Black*Star's body sinks slowly, his eyes wide and staring. He doesn't scream, but she sees his lips move, and she knows she'll always see her name on his lips, too.

And then he's gone, and she's on the forest floor, eyes wide and shocked. She can sense the samurai across the clearing, but he's not her concern right now. Those aren't tears streaming down her face. She's a Nakatsukasa. She's the prodigy, the heir to her family and their techniques and she's not shaking now. She can't.

Next to her, Black*Star is unnaturally still. She can see no rise of his chest, can feel no puff of breath or hear his strong heart thud under her hand. Any moment she knows he'll jump up and laugh and shout and she'll turn back into his weapon and then they will fight the samurai and they'll win and he's not moving.

She doesn't scream. She is a Nakatsukasa. She is a warrior and a fighter and this will not break her, even though she feels like millions of pieces scattering in the wind, and she can't seem to focus on anything that isn't the blood soaking his shirt and her hands and seeping into the dirt.

The hand that lands on her shoulders is too warm. She doesn't bother to look up because Mifune is no threat to them any longer. She can't even blame him for Black*Star's death because in her soul she knows that _she_ is the one who dealt the final blow.

She stands slowly, shrugging off his hand, and she can feel once more the weight of generations and responsibility and grief drag her back down, but her knees are steady, and she is ready for a different burden, one that she never thought she would have to carry.

Failure had never been an option.


	10. Lost was the child

**Lost was the child**

****Maka, Rated: K; Mommy issues.

* * *

><p>She's expecting a call, so she doesn't think twice about picking up the phone when it rings. They don't get many calls to begin with, and very few people have their number. Maka's heart stops when she greets their caller with a cheery, "Hello!" and hears not Tsubaki's familiar voice, but that of an unfamiliar woman.<p>

"May I speak with Soul Evans, please?"

_Evans_, she thinks. As startled as she is, Maka knows there are a finite number of possibilities for who the woman could be. As far as she knows, there are only two, maybe three people in the whole of Death City who know Soul's given name.

"May I ask who's calling?" She keeps her voice steady. The question is perfunctory; she already knows the answer.

"This is Lucretia Evans. Is he available?"

Maka wants to say yes. She's not sure of the full story behind Soul and his family, but she knows that he doesn't talk to them much, if at all. She's never seen him pick up the phone and call them at least-he's never gone home for Christmas or other holidays. He occasionally gets mail, but she's not sure if he's ever replied.

Maka has no trouble matching this Lucretia Evans with the elegantly scrawled handwriting on Soul's rare mail.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Evans, but Soul's out at the moment." She had been waiting for Tsubaki to call. Black*Star was supposed to be keeping Soul occupied while the girls went shopping for his birthday. "C-can I take a message?"

The silence from the other end of the line is thick, and Maka wonders for a moment if she's said something wrong-all she knows about Soul's family is that they're rich. Has she managed to step on the woman's toes in some way? Maka steals herself, but all she hears is a very faint exhalation.

"Oh. I'm sorry to bother you."

"It's no trouble at all," Maka reassures her. "I'd be happy to give him a message from you-"

"Ah, no. That...that won't be necessary," Lucretia says. There is an awkward pause, and Maka can't help but wonder about this woman who sounds so elegant and refined, yet so hesitant and unsure of herself. She hadn't given much thought to Soul's parents, but had she been asked, this woman would not have matched up with the vague picture she'd created of her partner's mother. "Are you-his partner?" The question sounds forced.

"Yes, I am." She pauses, considers, and in a flash makes her decision. "My name is Maka Albarn; it's nice to meet you." After a fashion, at least. This can barely be considered meeting, and "nice" doesn't really cover the awkward silences and pauses. Briefly, Maka wonders if Soul will be mad at her, and decides that this might be worth it anyway.

"The pleasure's all mine, Ms. Albarn."

"Please, call me Maka." She doesn't care for the formality in the older woman's tone, the rigidity makes her uncomfortable. Maka cringes at the lingering silence.

"And you may call me Lucretia if you like," she says after a moment, and there is shift in her voice, as though Maka's words have unlocked something. "Please, if you have a moment, may I ask you something?"

"Oh, of course; please, go ahead."

"Is-Soul, is he all right?"

Oh. _Oh_. She kind of wants to chop her partner into next week. She hadn't seen him respond to his parents because he never had.

"He's doing fine, Mrs.-Lucretia." Maka doesn't know what happened between Soul and his parents. She hasn't and won't pry-she trusts her partner, and knows that he must have his reasons, but what she hears now is a mother, confused and worried. She tries not to think about the mother who hasn't called her in years.

"He's doing well in school?"

"Well, he's a little bit of a slacker, but he's smart, and he's an excellent partner."

"I confess, I don't know much about what it is he's...doing."

She considers all the things that Soul does, what they do together, what this life of theirs entails and the scar that bisects her son now-she settles for, "He's my weapon. Soul is a hero who protects people and keeps them safe. He's the best partner I could ever dream of having, Lucretia." There is another soft sigh from the line. "He's a good man-an incredible man," Maka adds.

She almost misses the whispered, "Thank you," and she deliberately ignores what sounds suspiciously like a sob.

"It's my pleasure," Maka says. "Thank _you_." There is a faint sniffle. "Are you sure I can't take a message for him?"

"Please just...let him know that we're proud of him."

"I will."

"Thank you, Maka. It's truly been a pleasure."

"You're welcome. It's nice to meet you." And this time it does feel nice, not as awkward as she'd been expecting. As an afterthought, she adds, "Soul's supposed to be in all day tomorrow. Just. So you know."

"I'll keep that in mind. Goodbye Maka."

"Bye-" The line clicks, and Maka hangs up the phone, wondering if the conversation she just had was actually real. She feels stuck in surreality.

The phone rings, and she hesitates before answering. "Hello?"

"Maka? I've been trying to get through! Black*Star's got Soul distracted-are you ready to go?"

"Ah. Yeah, sorry. I had another call on the line. I'll..I'll head your way. See you in a few."


	11. Soft

**SOFT**

Soul/Maka.

* * *

><p>His meister is many things. She is brilliant, nerdy (brilliantly nerdy), fierce, brave, headstrong, reckless, resilient, compassionate, kind. Cool, though he might die before he admits it to anyone who isn't <em>her<em>. His meister is many things, but soft is not one of them. She is made of soft _parts _(he thinks of her hair, her skin), but even then, she is steel; all subtle muscles beneath tender girl flesh.

Emotions that others would consider weakness, she has in spades-kindness and empathy, even love. She is brimming with them, but they do not make her soft. She cries-has never pretended otherwise, though Soul has never once seen her cry because she's hurt. She cries for others, because her heart is big and she cares too much. She cries when she's frustrated, chest heaving with impotent rage-and when he's hurt, for the same reason. Underneath her tears is not soft weakness, but fierce determination and strength of will (even when he feels hot tears drip onto his skin and soak into his hospital sheets). He knows the set of her shoulders and spine as they stiffen, has memorized the way that her chin shoots up and her jaw clenches, her eyes as the narrow and focus, how her grip tightens against his shaft as they fight. Maka is always ready for a fight.

He has thought a rather lot about his meister over the years. A great number of his thoughts have been far from charitable-frequently related to the increasing number of head injuries received thanks to her, but never has the word "soft" crossed his mind. That is, until she gives him an unfathomable green stare and presses her lips against his.

_Soft_. Soft and warm and _wet_ and he can taste the coffee on her lips that she had earlier and he doesn't even like coffee, but suddenly it tastes _good_.

_Soft_ because she's leaning against him, just slightly, and he can feel smooth skin that's usually covered by gloves as her fingertips press into his forearm. She leans in and he melts, and they're toppling backwards onto the couch as Soul's introduced to Maka's _tongue_.

Soft are the little sighs and moans that escape her mouth as he returns her kisses. He presses fingers into the silky skin of her waist and finds that hard layer of muscle as she clenches her abs and grinds against him.

He's naught but angles and edges, lanky and half-grown and awkward, but her lips are still against his, tongue darting past his teeth. She writhes against him, hips sharp and hard against his, but _god_, he doesn't care. Her breasts are squashed against his chest as his hands grip her hips.

She pulls back slowly, breath coming in small pants; her face is flushed, but she meets his gaze without hesitation. Green eyes are a little hazy as she searches his face. He can read the strength there, even paired as it is with vulnerability. Her eyes are soft, affectionate as he leans up and kisses her. But not weak.


	12. You Kidnapped My Reason

You Kidnapped My Reason.

PWP shameless smut~ Found this and realized that I had never posted it anywhere but on GW. Please enjoy, loveys.

* * *

><p>He finds her there on the couch, draped on her stomach and completely engrossed in her novel. It's not the first time it's happened, and he knows it isn't going to be the last. His eyes dart to the side and sure enough, she's still in her school skirt. He can just see the curve of her ass under that fucking skirt, and she shifts slightly. Soul gulps. There's bare skin, and he can feel a thin sheen of sweat break out across his skin. His meister is a tease, and she's going to murder him via blue balls. This is the third time this week, and he's pretty sure if he goes and steals the bathroom for another hearty round of self-abuse, his dick is going to fall off.<p>

Maka chooses this moment to look over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He can only hope that she doesn't notice the awkward boner, or that if she does, she graciously ignores it like he's trying to.

"Hey Soul. Did you wanna sit down?" He should say no, a thousand times no. He needs to be anywhere but on a couch next to her and that skirt, but what comes out is a gruff,

"Yeah."

"You want me to move?" Fuck his brain; it's going haywire, but his head is nodding stupidly, and she kicks her ankles up. He's committed now. All he wants to do is run away as far and as fast as he can, but he's already sitting, remote in hand. Maka goes back to her book, but she's fidgety now, shifting from side to side. He doesn't know who he thinks he's kidding, flipping through channels like he gives any shits about what's on. When she starts swinging her ankles, he almost loses it completely. He grabs an ankle before she can clock him in the chin with it, and she squeaks, kicking out with her free leg. Soul knows for a fact now that his meister is going commando and something in his brain short circuits with a blistering _pop_. He dodges her free foot neatly and snakes in between those tantalizing legs. He doesn't think that she can kick him in the head from this angle, but she's proven time and time again that she's fucking ridiculously flexible, and the thought makes his blood burn. He keeps the ankle just in case.

Maka whips her head around, and he's expecting the death glare she gives him, but not the way her cheeks are flushed or how hard she's breathing, or the fact that they've known each other for years now, and he can easily read behind that glare. It doesn't hurt that he can clearly smell her arousal, either.

"Soul, what-" it comes out breathy and more curious than angry. He growls and dips down, nipping at the rounded curve of her ass, and she squeals this time, flush spreading down her neck.

"No, Maka. What are _you_ doing? What's this?" He drags his free palm up the back of her thigh, thumb resting just underneath one pert cheek. Absentmindedly, he rubs her soft flesh, and watches her breathing quicken as she stares at his hand in helpless fascination. "Are you _trying_ to drive me insane?" Her glare intensifies, and she lifts her chin defiantly. The blush has spread to the top of her chest, and he can just see it disappearing into her shirt. He wants to unbutton her oxford and see how far down it goes. With his tongue.

"What if I am," she replies, one brown arched in a clear challenge. His thumb digs into her flesh as all the air goes out of his lungs at once and his brain tries to process those four little words and just what he's going to do about them.

Apparently he's taking too long for his meister, because she's arching her ass up under his hand and her skirt has got to be just about the least effective piece of clothing that she owns. He inhales sharply and breathes,

"Fuckit," and his teeth are grazing her captive ankle, moving down to the back of her knee. Maka gasps, but his mouth is already gone and it's just his hand ghosting up her leg until he's gripping her hips, pinning her as she squirms. His dick is painfully hard, and pressing it into the couch really isn't doing him any favors. The logical solution is clearly to drag her hips back to meet his and this time he manages to elicit a sharp,

"Soul!" from his meister. Her wriggling is going to make him insane in very short order, but fuck if that isn't the kind of insanity that he can really get behind. He pushes his hips forward experimentally, and _oh_, it feels incredible; he can't even fathom what this would feel like without his jeans in the way. Maka is making these little groans that are completely entrancing as she pushes back into his cock. She moans his name again and hearing it sends amazing signals to his brain. Her shoulders are shimmying back and forth and he's mesmerized by the motion until he realizes that she's unbuttoning her shirt and he's not participating.

He growls her name, breath hot against the nape of her neck and she freezes for one critical moment. He seizes the opportunity and hauls her upright. She's managed to get about half of her shirt undone, and he's distracted by glimpses of blue cotton.

"Let me help you with that," he murmurs, and he's applying deft pianist fingers to the problem. She's a little vexed with her weapon, because dammit, she was almost done. She grinds back against him, irritated, in what Soul decides is definitely his new favorite form of punishment. Except every time she does it, his fingers fumble, and he whines in frustration.

"If you cut my shirt off, " she pants, writhing greedily against him, "I _will_ kill you."

"_Hnng woman_, if you don't want me cut your shirt off, _hold. The. Fuck. Still_." She manages just long enough for him to finagle the last button, and then she's shucking her shirt as fast as she can, tossing it somewhere into the ether. She could care less where the damn thing lands. His fingers splay across her ribs, skin hot and smooth and fucking intoxicating. He sets his teeth along her neck, pleased to note that her blush does indeed extend down to the tops of her breasts, but then Maka begins anew her single-minded quest to grind against him into goddamned oblivion, and he's been gifted with two perfect handfuls of titties to play with. He drags a nail over one cup and watches Maka melt into him. He mirrors the action, and she stops completely, shocked into silence by the sensation of one blunt nail scrapping across her nipple. Soul does it again he decides this is his new favorite game; only this time Maka springs into action as he flicks her nipple. She arches her arms back, hands tugging deliciously at his hair before clawing down to the back of his shirt and tugging imperiously.

"OFF," she demands, and Soul groans a bit because that means he's going to have to remove his hands from her tits, and that's not in the cards, but she's got her head back, resting on his shoulder and her tongue is tracing the shell of his ear. "Your skin, I need-" and she's dissolving again as he pinches her nipples. Her request is enough, despite his reluctance.

Soul disengages long enough to haul his shirt over his head and then he's glued to her back and the feeling of skin against skin is phenomenal. She sighs, like his skin on hers is a boon, and he can't decide if he wants to lick her soft neck or try and get her bra off. Decisions are hard, though, and he's an ambitious sort of man, so he tries both, and Maka is stuck alternately giggling at his fumbling attempts and gasping when he bites down in retribution. With much cursing, he manages to remove the offending garment, and Maka is lost. Her hands are everywhere at once, grabbing at his jean clad thighs, fisting into his hair.

Soul wonders briefly if it's strange that he's got her essentially naked and they haven't even kissed yet, decides that with his hands wrapped around her breasts and his hips thrusting gently against her ass, that it really doesn't matter because he loves her, has kind of always been in love with this crazy cool nerdy creature writhing in his arms. And hey, maybe she loves him too and might have been sending him her ass-backwards versions of signals for the past few weeks because this is _Maka_ and her brain is on some completely different plane from everyone else's. He groans into her back and tries not to think about all the times he guiltily whacked off in the bathroom when he apparently _didn't even have to_.

Maka twists in his grip, and he has just enough time to mourn the fact that she's not pressed against him before she gives him a long hard stare that takes his breath away. Then she's throwing herself at him, lips pressed tightly against his, arms wrapped around his neck, and he's crashing backwards onto his elbows, couch cushions marginally softening the blow. She wastes no time with delicate kisses, her nails are in his shoulders, teeth clacking sharply against his, her tongue sliding against his own. Her fingers are fucking freezing, and he snorts into her mouth, abs twitching away from her wandering hands. They warm up _fast_ as she explores his body, and Soul learns quickly that his meister is as clever with her fingers as any musician because suddenly his belt is unbuckled and useless, and his pants are unzipped and he's trying not to whimper into his meister's mouth and she's got his boner in one small, callused hand, and is trying to kill him as she figures out through some kind of sexy echolocation what the best way to jack off her weapon is.

She's nipping at his lips now, and he's trying to control the way his hips are rocking into her fist, but she's got his dick trapped between her hand and his stomach and she's still trying to melt her hips into his and Soul gives up, lost in warm pressure and her slick tongue against his.

"Haaah-M-Maka. Fuck. Stopstopstop_hnngh_." She pauses long enough to pull away and narrow her eyes. She's giving him the death glare again, jaw set firmly, and he's having a hard time deciphering whether she's more pissed that he stopped her fun, or if that's hurt building up behind her green stare. He leans forward, kisses her tensed jaw gently, and tries not to make any more unmanly noises when she squirms. He might have stopped her disastrously talented hands, but he's still got a mostly naked Maka nestled snugly in his lap, hot and wet and incredibly tempting.

"Am I doing it wrong?" she demands, and he has to choke back a strangled, deranged laugh bubbling up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He grabs her hips and _fuck_ his dick is so close to where he wants it to be, but he manages to tamp down on the bad, bad urge and restrain himself. He rubs against her slowly and her green eyes go wide, nails biting into his shoulders again. She rocks forward on her own and Soul's eyes cross slightly. He wants to move forward that half an inch and bury himself to the hilt, wants to hear more of those ridiculously sexy noises, wants to hear his name spill from her lips.

"Is this right?" she asks, and it's timid sounding, but there is nothing but pure wickedness in her eyes as he grunts out a strangled,

"Fuck, _yes_." Any semblance of hesitance is gone now, and Maka gives him a smirk dangerously reminiscent of his own and says,

"That's the whole idea." For a moment, Soul is completely still. His eyes bore a hole into Maka's, but her moment of insecurity has been completely burned away by his lips and hands and hips, by the naked want in his eyes (the raging boner pressed against her doesn't hurt her confidence, either). "I'm sure," she reassures, rough nails scraping lightly against his nipples. Soul jumps, twitches, and it's like a jumper cable to the brain.

"Back right pocket," he bites out. Her hands are already in motion, and she manages to squeeze his ass as she pull out his wallet and finds the condom Black*Star had shoved in there in the least covert way possible last time he'd tried to prove that he was the world's greatest pick pocket _and_ assassin. Never has Soul been so grateful for his loudmouthed friend. He panics for a moment, but Maka already has the condom out of its foil package, suspiciously deft as she kisses him and pinches the latex tip. She catches his eyes and her blush is back in full force.

"Blair," she explains, and Soul laughs at her embarrassment, and she takes that moment to roll the condom onto his dick. It's uncomfortable, but he can cope, especially as Maka's got a firm grip on him again, and she's whispering things like,

"I want you, Soul," and "_Hhngh_, _please_," as she maneuvers his dick. Everything is ridiculously hot and warm and he has no idea what's going on until she grunts in frustration and shifts again and suddenly everything is white hot beautiful as she sinks onto him.

She winces once or twice and he freezes, terror warring with the sensation of being _in_ his meister and wanting to thrust up into her, but Maka smiles at him and solves his dilemma, pushing herself down further, rolling her hips slightly and as she tries to get used to the feeling of being _filled_. She's pressed against him, and he can't help but stare because her tits are right there, begging to be fondled. She pulls back slightly, and he bends her back, one hand supporting her spine, the other clenching her hip and his mouth is hot and wet against her as he licks and sucks her tits. Her brain has completely checked out, and she tangles a hand into his hair and impales herself on his dick again, whimpering as he bucks his hips into hers. He can just make out her cracking plea.

"Haaaah-touch me, Soul." His brain is firing on all cylinders, goes into overdrive at the sound of her rough voice, and he's going to make her see stars, even if it means he strains something in his hand. He's inexperienced, but he's not uneducated. He's watched enough porn, maybe even snuck a couple of Maka's bottom-shelf books, and he knows what a clit is and it's general location, and he dedicates his thumb to the task. He rubs, tries not to think about how tight and slick Maka is, feels the little nub and swirls his digit around it. "_Fuck_," she hiccups, and she's so keyed up that her hips are driving into his wildly and she's clenching around him. He rubs his thumb against her again, falling into a rhythm with their hips and suddenly, she's gone completely, back arching, mouth open but silent as she slams into him, shuddering violently; it would be fascinating to watch, but she's squeezing him mercilessly, and he can't think anymore because he's biting her shoulder to keep from crying out as he plunges into her spastically and everything is stars behind his eyelids until his brain catches up to his body and all of his limbs are uncooperative jelly.

He slumps back onto the cushions, taking Maka with him and for a long moment, there's nothing but the harsh sounds of their mingling pants. Soul manages to lift his head long enough to meet his meister's exhausted green eyes.

"Wow," he says.

"Wow," she agrees, and he could dance because she's smiling at him and there's no awkward regret, but movement isn't really a happening thing at the moment, much less dancing, so he smiles back and kisses her softly, because that's a thing that he can do now, and they lay there, _together_, content and tired. Except after a minute, Maka begins to fidget against him, and there's something sticky starting to drip onto his thighs, and it takes a second to process just what that is.

Maka clears her throat delicately, and her blush is back in full, violent red force.

"We should ah, haaaa. Check..." He stares at her stupidly until it clicks and he's blushing too and on the verge of panicking with the sheer number of what-if scenarios pummeling his brain. He tamps them down to varying degrees of success, barely manages to not start up a frantic mantra consisting of "Ohgodohgodoh_god_," and gingerly withdraws. They both cringe at the sensation, but the condom is at least where it's supposed to be, and now Soul's left with the task of disposing of the thing in a way that doesn't lose him any more cool points that he already has. It's impossible, he's pretty certain. His pants are still technically on, denim wrapped around his thighs, but they're kind of a complete sticky moist mess from their enthusiastic activities, and his boxers are in even worse shape. They disentangle with marginal success, and he manages to remove the sticky latex with minimum wincing.

It's a lost cause, really, so Soul tugs up cold, wet boxers and jeans and half shuffles, half waddles to the nearest trash can, hissing the whole time at the feeling of material anywhere near his still sensitive junk. He waddles back to the couch, and their eyes are like opposing magnets. Her tits are still out and about and _distracting_, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to look at his meister without envisioning her naked. She's desperately trying to look anywhere but at the stain on this jeans, but it's _right there_, and kind of her fault, and it's better than the alternative which is looking at his stupidly sculpted chest. She could look him in the eyes, but all that makes her think of is what he looks like when he orgasms, and that is _no fucking good_. Maka thinks that they may never be able to look at each other again, despite the fact that they just had sex that they both wanted and didn't regret and wasn't that supposed to be the hard part?

Soul sighs. Cool is so far gone he can't even contemplate it. There's no hope of salvaging any image he might have had, and fuck, he's never really been able to fool her anyway. He holds his hand out, and she takes it reflexively. He pulls her up, off the couch, and crushes her to his chest. they're both sticky with sweat as they embrace, but he can feel Maka begin to relax against him and the tension begins to dissipate. Perhaps there's still hope for salvaging this post-coital lull, he thinks, staring at the strands of her hair plastered to his chest. He backs away, tugs her with him, and moves towards the hall.

"Soul, what-?" she's confused, but doesn't resist. He shoots her a cocky grin.

"Shower time, Maka."


	13. This beat is killing me

This beat is killing me

* * *

><p>Sometimes, he catches her dancing. She'll have her earbuds in, the ones he got her for Christmas because he'd seen her staring at them. They matched those stupid little skull ponytail holders she uses in her hair. He couldn't decide if it was adorable or just dorky. He'd told her, with the appropriate amount of eyerolling, that he'd gotten them so he didn't have to listen to her shitty trance music anymore. Maka had given him a piercing look, and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable chop.<p>

Instead, she had given him a smile, a quick hug, and a peck on the cheek as a thank you, and then immediately started listening to something so horrifically loud that Soul could _still _kind of hear it through the earbuds. But she also looked pretty ridiculously pleased, so he just scowled a little and pushed her off the couch.

So he catches her dancing sometimes, with little skull earbuds in, sometimes still in her school clothes, sometimes in these little workout shorts that make him want to die. Right now, she's got on a pair of the ugliest, rattiest sweatpants he's ever seen. They look oddly familiar, and it takes him a moment to realize that they used to be his. He'd tossed them at her head one day to get her to shut up about walking around in pants that had holes in them. Her sputtering as he'd stripped down to his boxers had been totally worth losing his favorite pair of broken in sweats. He'd assumed that she'd thrown them away, not that she would have, in any plane of existence, kept them.

Maka hums under her breath, pigtails bouncing. _His_ sweats are tied tight around her hips, but the waistband keeps slipping down and her shirt keeps riding up, and Soul has to stifle a groan, wondering why he didn't just take a nap in his room. Except, he knows _exactly _why he didn't, and why he hasn't taken a nap in his room in the last several months, even if he would never in a million years, not for all the witch souls in the world, admit it.

Sometimes she dances. She does it more now than she used to, and he has to wonder if it's because of those little earbuds that made her music perfectly portable, or if maybe _maybe_ it's got something to do with him-maybe she's dancing _because _he keeps napping on the couch rather than in spite of it. Except this is Maka, and that's not how she rolls. He used to pretend to be asleep when she would bounce into the living room from the kitchen-sometimes to pick up a book, sometimes to clean-until he realized that Maka's soul perception was probably good enough these days to be able to tell the difference between awake and asleep, and then started feeling like kind of a creep.

So now, he just naps on the couch, or he reads his magazines, or watches tv as she gyrates through the kitchen. Half the time, her eyes are mostly shut, but he's yet to see her bump into anything, and he doesn't feel quite so awkward keeping an eye on her like that because it's not really staring. He's just making sure she doesn't trip over anything, right? Right.

She's not really a _good_ dancer. At least, not in the way that he was taught _good_ and _bad_ and _artistic_. Soul still remembers being dragged to ballets and interpretive dance art pieces-sometimes because Wes was the accompaniment, sometimes because he thinks his mother actually _enjoyed _that kind of thing. When Maka danced, it wasn't good. There was no training, no real skill. He has a hard time looking away, though. He never had that problem before, he thinks.

The difference is honesty, Soul decides, watching her hips twist and the smile that lights up her face, the way that her eyes, half closed, crinkle at the corners. Occasionally, he recognizes something in her motion-it takes him a minute because he's not used to seeing it in person so much as he's used to _feeling _the motion-it's a wide swing, a slide across tile in socked feet, the delicate shifting of her balance as she fights that translates into dancing and kind of makes his blood boil.

He wonders, laying on the couch, gaze carefully, deliberately neutral, if her particular brand of grace could translate into something else entirely.

She smiles when she dances-just a slight quirk of her lips, completely unselfconscious, and Soul comes to the realization that Maka _does_ understand music. Her smile, her motion-she feels the music the same way that he does. It's just that _her_ definition of music (thudding bass lines and synthetic keyboards and the repetition) has nothing to do with _his_ definition of music (cool jazz and developed harmonies and anything with more substance than _electronica_, for fuck's sake). But still, it's there. She can _feel_ the music or she wouldn't be dancing, and he wonders what she would do if he slid up behind her and curved his hands over her hips and taught her how to feel _his _music, too.

He turns the page on his magazine, and Maka flicks her eyes open long enough to catch his gaze. He wonders if she's been doing that this entire time, and despite his observations, if he's just never noticed it before. Her smile is _more_, wider. There is no hint, just that megawatt grin that makes his chest pound a little harder. Soul thinks about the Black Room, about that smile and pianos and "Hi, my name is Maka," and how maybe she already feels his music.


End file.
